


drop anchor

by haywoodukillme



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, M/M, just trying to cover all my bases with tags!, more of a character study than any plot in general tbh, slight trespasser spoilers, the pavellan is also very slight, their relationship is mentioned but dorian himself actually isn't even in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 07:43:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19942624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haywoodukillme/pseuds/haywoodukillme
Summary: It's almost like the Anchor is trying to separate itself from him; it's done, it's run it's course, it's expired. It's a little selfish that it wants Mahanon to expire with it, but he doesn't seem to have the chance to argue the point. Like everything that's happened in the last few years, the timing couldn't be worse.





	drop anchor

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think this necessitates any major disclaimers but just to be sure about it, there's a lot of talk ABOUT character death even though there is no actual death. I didn't want to check the box for it because like I said, no actual death, but just wanted to throw a warning out there that Lavellan is uhhh a little morbid in this one, just so everyone's aware. 
> 
> hope y'all enjoy!

Mahanon is dying. He knows this. (He doesn't say it.) He isn't sure how well he's hiding it, now. The pain is burning, is electricty, is traveling up his arm further and further and further -

It's bad, all of it. Lightning used to feel comforting; used to be natural, warm. From his flasks, in the middle of a fight, he knew it to be safe. But this? This, he knows, is killing him.

It always was but it was easier, before, to forget. _Stable_ , they said, and he let himself think it meant _safe_. Keeper Lyeli always said he was a fool, that he tried to get through life too fast. She always cursed him for never paying enough attention. ("If you're observant, you can avoid unnecessary fighting," she would say, and he'd roll his eyes. "If I can defend myself, why should I be worried about extra fighting?")

_Fool._

How do you defend yourself against your own body?

As if on cue, the Anchor pulses again, sending a ripple of power and pain up his forearm. It drives him stumbling to his knees, and he's left there in the shady corners of the garden clutching at his arm and cursing. He grits his teeth, tries to be quiet, but it fucking _hurts._

It's almost like the Anchor is trying to separate itself from him; it's done, it's run it's course, it's expired. It's a little selfish that it wants Mahanon to expire _with it,_ but he doesn't seem to have the chance to argue the point. Like everything that's happened in the last few years, the timing couldn't be worse.

Mahanon clenches his jaw and thinks about everything that's been going wrong. Like his willful ignorance to the Anchor's meltdown, he'd be lying if he said he didn't notice the tensions rising around the height of the Inquisition. He's not stupid, he knows what it looks like to have them continue to operate as an unchecked military operation lingering on the boundary of Thedas, but he was almost naive enough to believe that the good they had done - _are still doing_ \- was enough to outweigh the concern.

Of course it comes down to _politics._

Creators take the Game and every higher power that cultivates it, he's done bending over backwards to try and please all of these faces behind masks.

The pain subsides for the time being and he can feel the static bleeding out of him, sapping his energy along with it. He lets himself slump forward so he can press his forehead into the grass, his eyes squeezed shut against the rolling pain pressing against every point of his skull. Theres a hum to Orlais that never stops, a quiet that never comes, and Mahanon can still hear the swell of voices and footsteps of nobles and soldiers alike. The gardens are vast and maze-like and while he has found an unoccupied space alone within them, he knows better than to think he's truly _alone_ here.

A minute. That's all he needs. Just a minute to catch his breath and then he'll get up.

Coming back to the Winter Palace wasn't something Mahanon ever foresaw happening. If he had it his way, he never would have stepped foot in Halamshiral in the first place, but again, the Game will always claim its unwilling victims. For a hall built on blood and demise, it was sickening to see the way it clamored for more of it. Under the dancing, the dresses, the masks, it all came down to the same thing. _Blood._

It’s part of why he was so adamant, then, about saving Celene. Her politics be damned, all Mahanon cared about was not letting one more person die on that tile. Even Florianne, at the end of everything, was captured alive.

And all for what? For it to circle back here?

Somewhere between the rush of the fountain behind him and the lull of conversation, Mahanon can pick out the sound of footsteps coming towards him. He struggles to remember why this is a bad thing, why he needs to get up, why he needs to open his eyes.

A minute. He was only gone for a minute. Nothing else could’ve gone wrong.

“Inquisitor?”

His mouth moves, but he isn’t sure if there’s sound that comes out. _‘I’m okay’_ is what he tries to say, but he’s sure it doesn’t sound reassuring, given his current slumped form. With his eyes still squeezed closed he slowly gets his hands under him enough to start to push himself up, lips still moving to try and say _‘okay, I’m okay’_ but there’s no effort for sound anymore. Hands hover over him, unsure of their welcome, of their necessity, but if Mahanon can do nothing else he can at least stand on his own.

When he does, there's only one soldier standing in front of him. Young, younger than Mahanon will ever get used to seeing. She looks familiar, but he only sees so much of individual soldiers, all of them fleeting moments of conversation, and they blend together. He wants to think that if he stared long enough, he could remember a name, but the odds are that he never knew it in the first place. The unfamiliarity made him squirm at the start, uncomfortable, but it’s a necessary evil when their army is thousands strong and there is but one of him.

The corner of the garden remains otherwise unoccupied aside from him and the solider, and Mahanon is able to breath a short sigh of relief. At least none of the nobles saw, there will be no talk of him and his meltdowns among visitors. Creators know Josie is already doing enough damage control for them within the council, he doesn't need to add anything else to her plate. He reaches for the last of his energy so he can give the soldier a weak smile, tries to straighten his shoulders so he doesn't look quite so ready to collapse again.

"Inquisitor..?"

It's an open ended question, one that Mahanon would rather leave untouched than to answer, but he can see worry in the soldiers eyes, even as watches them try to wipe it off their face. Now more than ever Mahanon needs to squash that uncertainty where it starts. He's tired, so very tired, a bone deep exhaustion that has haunted him ever since he woke up with the Anchor embedded in his hand, but he's still a leader. He has the energy to be that, at least.

"No need to look so dire. Is there something you needed to tell me?"

The soldier shakes themselves, reminded of their original purpose. "Yes, my lord. Divine Justinia is looking for you, the council wishes to converge again."

Mahanon nods, dismisses the soldier. They bring their feet together and hand to their chest, but instead of turning to go, they lower their head. There is definitely something they want to say, but they wont unless Mahanon gives them an opening for it. He supposes he knows what's coming, but he asks anyway, "Is that all now?"

"It... hurts, doesn't it?"

The soldier is still looking down, though Mahanon knows they're looking at his hand. The Anchor is still pulsing, flickering, more noticeable now as it's been getting more volatile. Subconsciously, he flexes his hand, the green glow fading and flickering with the movement. There is... an ache that follows, but it's something that Mahanon has learned to get used to. The Anchor is a physical thing, something present within him that doesnt belong. He's always known that, been forced to know it. He searches for the words the soldier wants to hear - the truth is, Mahanon is in pain constantly. The Anchor is a discomfort, a disruption, now more than ever, but with no feasible options of removal, complaining had always seemed senseless.

Mahanon turns his hand over and shows the soldier the mark on the inside of his palm, the swirling lines emblazoned there. He let's them stare, takes the time to pick his words carefully for his answer.

"There is pain, yes, but this mark has helped more than it has hurt. And I've survived worse than just some discomfort, so dont mind me, yes? The Winter Palace itself is a pain, more than the mark is."

Mahanon suspects if he was anyone other than the Inquisitor, the soldier would push the subject. It's a shoddy answer at best, evasive and vague, but it's the best he can do without lying. As is, the soldier nods their head and takes a step back to salute once again.

"The council is meeting in the hall again, Your Grace. Whenever you're ready," and this time they do turn and leave, slipping back into the fray of the gardens.

Mahanon takes a minute to close his eyes and breathe before he goes in to face the council. He only hopes for a small reprieve from the anchor, a bit of relative peace. It’s too much to ask for, he knows that, but what else is he to do? There is nothing that soothes its anger, nothing he can do to quell it, to stop it’s outbursts once they start.

There’s a part of him that wishes for Solas and his wealth of knowledge, the one person out of everyone who seemed to know anything about the Mark, the Anchor, and what it means for Mahanon to live with it in his body. He wonders if Solas were here if there would even be anything he could do or if he’s just destined to die here, now, at the hands of expired magic. Mahanon doesn't remember the days right after the Temple, when he first fell out of the Fade, but he knows what everyone told him - that he owed his life to Solas, that the Mark was killing him then, consuming him as the Breach grew. He wonders if this is the same, has spent the days since the council staring up at the sky in distrust, seeking out the scar between the clouds to try and reassure himself that the wound truly is healed. But if it's not the Breach aggravating the Anchor, then what is it?

Mahanon has no answers, not for himself or the council or his ambassadors. Not for his soldiers, who look at him with awe in their eyes, or for his companions, happy to see each other but wary of a fight, and Creators take him, he doesn't have the answers for Dorian, either. Seeing him should have been his happiest moment out of the last two years but instead Mahanon felt it like ash in his mouth, all his fear and worry churning like a pit in his stomach. He sees it reflected in Dorian’s eyes every time they talk, Mahanon trying to hide his hand, doing whatever he can to mute the morbid green light that doesn’t want to go out. They’re dancing around each other, both of them scared and frustrated and too full of pride to admit it.

It’s why Dorian didn’t tell him about Tevinter, not until after. Mahanon was angry for a breath, but it wheezed out of him the second their friends left and Dorian turned his attention solely to him and Mahanon could see the worry there, but behind it was the same conviction and hope he had when they stood together in the rookery, the first time Dorian told him he was leaving. There’s a feeling of pride that swells in Mahanon’s chest, the same as it did back then, pride for Dorian and all he sets out to accomplish. But there is pain, too, because for all the recent years have given them peace, they haven't had a chance to enjoy it _together._

Mahanon tries to hide his hand behind his back, worries it's a chance they'll never get. If this is something he must give up to the world, too, or if it's something he'll get to be selfish about. He's unsure if it's even a decision he'll have to make, or if the Anchor will make it for him.

Creators take him, but he's scared.

Two years of peace made him soft, made him gulliable, made him think that there was actually a future for him out of the war. That he could survive this and enjoy the quiet. He should've known it was too much to hope for.

When he leaves the gardens, he's aware of the attention he draws. The nobles keep up appearances well, but Mahanon is intimately familiar with the feeling of eyes on his back. He keeps his head up and his fist clenched while he walks and takes the most direct path he can back up to the gates and into the Palace. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked this lil peak into my Lavellan! I have a ton of love for my boy and I write for him a LOT, so I might expand this into a series of some one-offs about mahanon Lavellan and his journey through Thedas, if anyone is interested. as always, thank you for reading this far, I appreciate it <3


End file.
